


Train of Thought

by Holde_Maid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Logic, Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 06:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7923316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have tried to answer the question how Mycroft's mind works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Train of Thought

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the universes of the BBC's series "Sherlock", Arthur Conan Doyle's books or any other related published film, series or book, nor any of the characters, plots, or any other element thereof. I merely create the plots and wording of my own fanfic, plus the occasional original character, and in doing so I do not intend any copyright infringement. I also make no money off any of my fanfic.

Mycroft sat in his office at the club. Long years of practice allowed him to keep his eyes open - a feat his brother Sherlock had never quite mastered -, even though the better part of his conscious had retreated to his mind palace. Actually, he hardly ever left it, since he had organised much of his mind that way: whenever Mycroft turned to a new subject, in his imagination he entered another room in is mind palace. To be precise, he entered another compartment, for his mind palace was a train.

Normally, a mind palace is a mnemonic device or, more simply put, a mind trick which allows you to use imagery to find where you stored a specific memory. Normally. Mycroft, however, was not a normal, and so the standard use of a mind-palace had not filled his above-average needs. So he had gone further. Instead of chosing a room one knows intimately, as one normally did, he had crafted a mind-palace that could be extended easily. Hence the choice of a train. The only train he had found comfortable enough to walk around in it in his imagination was the tv version of the original Orient Express. From this he had fashioned a generic compartment for each area of knowledge - law, politics, torture, pop culture, scam systems, ... Anything he found useful or relevant. And there in his mind he sat down in one of the luxurious leather seats when he pondered a problem pertaining to this subject. 

He walked in this imaginary train on a daily basis, moving from compartment to compartment as the need arose. His body, meanwhile, remained motionless, a silent fixture in one of his several offices. And if, indeed, his own vast knowledge did not suffice, Anthea quickly supplied whatever he asked for. She was the last in a long row of PAs, most of whom had apparently left the generously paid position, because they found Mycroft "creepy". They had not been able to grasp the idea that he elected to stay in his mind palace for such long periods of time. The truth was, it was the most comfortable place he had ever been to.

Of course he had installed books, newspapers and the like above the seats, and on these he concentrated when he was committing anything new to memory, naturally seeking out the best fit. Each compartment had its own specific smell and a specific chime as he entered, because sensory information sped up memory retrieval. 

It was, he always felt, a work of art. And at this moment it was also utterly and painfully useless.

Several factors had put stumbling blocks in its path. One such factor was that this conundrum involved introspection, and introspection was messy: it soiled the purity of logic, the one thing he valued above all else, and mixed it with emotion and self-betrayal.

Mycroft prided himself to be quite indifferent to morals. He considered them a waste of time. And yet his current predicament had brought him face to face with the insight that he liked to see himself as a "decent" man. How bourgeois, and how ridiculous! Just the kind of result that had him loathe introspection. And, worst of all, it was another of the factors standing in his way to a solution.

Two further factors were his brother Sherlock's unpredictable whims and his own affection for Sherlock. So much emotional clutter, so little solid basis for logical deductions... No, it really was not surprising that his Mind Train had come to a halt. An array of conclusions lay at his feet already, but synthesizing them correctly meant being not decent, not a faithful brother, and colder in his reasoning than even he wanted to be. And that was why, for once in his life, he hesitated to trust in pure logic. And why today his train was taking him nowhere.


End file.
